Mug

She gave birth to her child. She complained. Yeah, she was really good at that. There was a child, coz she had wanted one. But there were problems with the sex. The problem was either the fact that there was sex, or the fact that there wasn’t or the fact that there was sex, but not the kind she wanted. How long should she have waited? Then they got divorced to top it all off. The man, and the woman. At one point they got divorced together. And some of them even had a second child.

There are people, who are happy. But what is happiness and where is it nowadays? Why does she say that? Back in the day, there were wars, they took them to fight, to Vietnam, there were single parents and all. But she didn’t know of that. And then there’s cancer. But then again, cancer existed back in the day as well. The kids are hyperactive. So what can she say to that? Let them run it off.

Look. There should be a tradition in every family, where every member shouts their pains into a mug, the woman, the man, then later the child as well, when it grows a little. Everyone needs a mug, she says. I should go to bed, she also says. Yea, yea, that bloody ambiguity. Not go to bed like that, I mean, I’m tired. So shout it, she says, holding the mug in front of her. The bills, the unpaid bills, but you know, I don’t always say these things, because you tell me I’m complaining. Stop whispering. But I’m telling you, she complains. You complain. The woman complains as well, she gave birth. Or she didn’t. Should she go to that goa party or should she enroll the kid at school? The unborn kid, who might never even be born. Where should I go?, she asks.

I have a different problem. Not the social networking sites with all the photos from Tunisia and the dated wedding-photos and pictures of the newborns, but the fact that my hands have started to wrinkle. My hairdresser, this wonderful little creature, she’s 22 and she’s complaining and she took the woman, who is really 30 years old, for a 24 year old. I mean, that’s something, right?

But you know, that’s not all. Like, remember all the stuff? Like when we were sitting in our rented flat about 12 years ago, full of libido, when we thought nothing of nothing and especially not of something, although I majored in Hungarian and Esthetics, and the other one majored in American Studies and gender studies, and that third chick cried so hard while on the phone, because she had a broken heart, but while crying really hard, she was looking at herself in the mirror. And we didn’t believe her. You can’t just cry into a mirror, especially not when you have an audience. And next year, she wasn’t living with us anymore.

But if you look at it close, stuff happens in the world, to women and to men as well. It’s like a computerized squash-game. Like, commodore 64 in the graphic-section. Dollar-sign, comma, eight, colon. There was ratio in that. The woman hits the wall, he fucks her, the woman doesn’t hit the wall, he doesn’t fuck her. That’s a way of looking at it, right? Of course, she remembers.

Life is cheaper in the countryside, we have to keep that in mind. And then there are glowing eyes, and commitment, we have to keep that in mind as well. But then you need a car, because otherwise you’re forgotten forever. The happening is always in the six and in the seven, just pay attention to it. Pay attention to it. You are too big of a snob for eight. And you’re not smart enough for twelve.

You think you’re so special? Nothing has any effect on you, is that what you think? Toilet paper, eight-pack and all the stuff on sale in your own brand anywhere? Come on, look at yourself!
Noone is above anything, some of us get ruined one way and others get ruined another way. Yeah, I mean, every bad thing had its good moments and vice versa.

Wow, how fucking smart she is all of a sudden.

She complains, she gave birth, she complains, she didn’t give birth. Just let her shout it into the mug. Just make her stop bothering me with all the mugs …